


What Follows the Flood

by Lycorim



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters Frequently Use Aliases, Death of a Parent, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Found Family, Jon Snow is a Stark, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to past trauma, Separation Anxiety, Slow Burn, chapter specific warnings in notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29678190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycorim/pseuds/Lycorim
Summary: House Stark falls in the wake of the Greyjoy Rebellion, Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn slain in their own home. Two of their four children are assumed dead, taken by the Greyjoys, separated, and left to die by river and coast. The other two disappeared the night of the murders with their uncle, presumably taken to the Wall and out of enemy reach. For ten years afterward, this remains the accepted narrative by all who care to ask. Ten years pass and the lost Starks are forgotten, their lives nothing more than a sad song. Ten years come and go, and a King's hostage, a Black Brother, a ward of the Vale, and a sailor in the Free Cities have all but forgotten the roots they share in the ruins of Winterfell.When a disaster at sea brings brother and sister together once again, this song of loss and sorrow is reworked into one of vengeance and reconciliation. Nothing, though, can ever go just as planned...
Relationships: Jon Snow/Ygritte, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	What Follows the Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benjen escapes Winterfell with Arya and Jon in tow. Robb and Sansa are captured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> -Blood  
> -Violence against children  
> -Off-screen death of a relative  
> 

_Keep them safe, Ben. Get them away._

It was cold for a spring night. The chill penetrated the castle’s stone walls, an unexpected intruder slipping past the flames and braziers that stood guard at its gates. Pools of red slowly froze along otherwise empty halls, the only testament to its presence. For Northmen, this chill was merely par for the course; winter had come and gone, after all, and those who survived a Northern winter were not ones to be put off by a cool spring wind. For Benjen Stark, it may as well have been the height of summer. The Wall wasn’t apt to anything but blizzards and ice storms, and even a year in its presence could make hot blood run icy. 

It was the coldest night the infant at his chest had ever seen, though, and she shivered madly in her layers of make-shift bundle and sling. Even that was better than how he had found her, alone in her crib, sobbing for all the castle to hear. _Better quiet and cold than warm and dead_ , he concluded, holding the girl that much closer as he snuck his way through Winterfell’s silent halls. Silent now, at least. Not a half-hour ago, these very passages had been echoing with a cacophony of battle cries, swords crashing, and the wails of dying men. Not two hours before that, they had been a-flood with panicked passerbys witnessing the beginnings of a war.

That was all lost to the wind now, the scattered bodies of allies, enemies, and innocents alike the only remaining attestation to conflict. Benjen checked each one’s face (for those whose faces were still intact). He counted three so far that he recognized. It was three too many, but at least none of them had been the children.

_Keep them safe, Ben,_ echoed like a mantra through his head. _Get them away._

“Damn you, I’m _trying_ ,” he muttered to no one in particular. His baby niece had been the easiest of the children to find, sequestered to her nursery as she had been. It was the other three, his two nephews and the toddler girl, that still evaded his frantic search.

Said niece weighed less than his sword did in the hand that wasn’t supporting her tiny, vulnerable head. Her little hands, covered in mittens, clutched at his leather jerkin in her sleep and she squirmed a bit in his grasp. Had she not been secured to Benjen’s chest with her mother’s bloody shawl, he probably would have dropped her in his haste to be away from this carnage. He remembered the pride in his brother’s face when the girl was handed to him only a week ago, his fourth child but the third to his wife. It was the same pride he wore whenever Catelyn birthed him another baby, a happy sort that surpassed even his glowing victories in battle. In Benjen's opinion, it suited him far better, too; Ned had taken to fatherhood as easily as Benjen had to his vows of celibacy. The memory of that joy, a joy he would never know for himself, pushed him forward. If he could just find _one more_ of those children, save just one more piece of his brother’s memory, his family’s legacy… 

Winterfell's courtyard was even more of a bloodbath than the halls had been. If he hadn't grown up on these very grounds, Benjen wouldn't have even recognized it _as_ Winterfell. Blood had saturated everything; even the air seemed to hang with its stench. The little snow left on the ground was stained red, and where he had once played at swords with his brothers was now realized as a battleground in truth. The slew of discarded weapons was as much a testament to that as the litter of decimated men that once wielded them.

He kept to the walls, making use of his monochrome wardrobe to become merely a shadow among the stones. If nothing else, the perimeter was slightly less coated in gore and viscera than the area within. Unfortunately, much of it was as shrouded as he, leaving him blind to both threat and refuge. Every shadow became an uncertainty, each turn of his back a game of luck. Anything could be hiding within, after all, and Benjen was only one man with a baby.

A scared sniffle and the shuffling of booted feet against wood rang across the courtyard like a call to arms. Benjen whipped in its direction, sword out and baby clutched fiercely. She started at the movement but otherwise remained none the wiser. A shadow-shrouded corner met his sword, but nothing could be seen within its darkness. That gave him some reassurance, as surely a Greyjoy soldier couldn’t hide in that small a crevice, but his guard remained raised as he cautiously approached. 

“Who goes there?” he called, using the most commanding whisper he could manage. Even if this wasn’t an enemy, the yard was an echo-chamber in its silence and he couldn’t draw too much attention to himself by raising his voice.

Another sniffle and a light whimper. _This doesn’t sound like a man grown,_ he realized. _A child could easily hide in that corner, though._ Sure enough, a hand far too small to belong to a soldier, clutching a dagger far too large for so small a hand, emerged from behind what Benjen could now see was a crate. He scooched closer and knelt. “Hello? Who’s back there?” The hand was trembling, he noticed, and far too violently to be from the chill. “I’m putting my sword down, okay? I won’t hurt you.”

His iron made a controlled clatter against the cobbled courtyard. It took a minute before the hand became an arm, which became shoulders, still partly in the shadow. A mop of blood-stained hair poked out with them. It was still brown through the grime. The same brown as Benjen’s own hair (just as covered in gore, too), and the same as the tiny girl in his arms. Sad, terrified grey eyes blinked back uncontrollable tears as the dagger, too, hit the stone (albeit far more noisily). A wave of relief wracked his body at the sight. _Oh, thank the Gods!_

“Uncle!” cried the child’s tiny voice, a voice Benjen knew as belonging to Jon Snow. He was on him in an instant, scooping up the boy and holding him tightly against his fragile sister. He sobbed against her in heaving waves, his voice only muffled by the black fur cloak as he was rocked at his uncle's chest. _Poor lad._ He reeked of blood and battle. Benjen could only hope he hadn’t seen the worst of it.

_“Shh_. Hush, Jon. We can’t make ourselves known.” The cries ceased with a gasp, though small hiccups and whimpers still passed his lips. He moved away after a beat, guilt stabbing him at the terrified noise Jon made because of it, and picked up the dagger. 

“Can I trust you with this?” he asked, holding it out hilt-first towards him. “Where we’re going, you may well need it”. The boy’s eyes grew wide as he looked from the dagger to Benjen and back again before tentatively nodding.

“A-are we * _hic_ * le-leaving _now?”_ he asked in a shaky high-pitched whisper. A solid nod from Benjen, who had moved on to his own sword, sheathing it before grabbing the boy’s small hand. He immediately yanked back on it, much to Benjen’s chagrin. “But-but-but… _Robb..._ and _Sa-Sansa!_ They _took_ them, uncle! The _mean men_ took them! They-”

_“Hush!_ There's no time to find them. We have to leave, and we have to leave _now_ unless you want the mean men to take you as well _._ ” It broke his heart the way those words seemed to cut Jon, big eyes filling again and shoulders slumping in defeat. He pulled his nephew's small frame against him once more and planted a kiss on his grimy hair. _“I’m sorry.”_

Jon’s hand and his resolve were languid as dough as the three of them made their escape. Benjen had to think on his feet about their escape route, his lifetime at this very castle seeming to vanish as he dragged his nephew behind him in a panic. The main entrance was definitely a no-go, the portcullis teeming with Greyjoys and in full sight of every watchtower. There was the back gate, but the slope was intense at its mouth, the ties on his make-do sling were noticeably loosening, and Benjen was not about to let another Stark die this night because _he_ couldn’t hold a baby. That only left one other option.

As a boy, Benjen had often used the small escape tunnel when he wanted to avoid his parents or to outrun his older brothers in a game of hide-and-seek. Ned had shown him the tunnel during one of these games when he was three and his brother seven. Now, he was one-and-twenty and his brother was dead. Slain before his own eyes by the man he thought brought peace. And here was Benjen, back again in this cold tunnel (more cramped than he remembered) clasping Ned’s baby to his body and pushing her blood-coated brother ahead of him. The damp channel was nearing its end, though. The small glimpse of moonlight raised his hopes of escape. If they could just get past here they would be in the Godswood, once past that they would be out of the Ironborns’ grasp.

The tunnel terminated in a small drainage ditch, just deep enough that an adult-sized man could use it for cover if he squatted low enough. It was a tight squeeze with Jon, but there they sat for a minute as Benjen scouted the surrounding area. No sounds aside from the rustling of the Weirwood’s red leaves could be heard in their immediate vicinity, but a raucous cry of victory was carried in by the wind. It filled his heart with sorrow, the thought of men cheering over the dead bodies of his brother and his sister-in-law, likely his other nephew and niece too. He choked back a sob of his own, that night’s events finally hitting him. _Dammit, Ned,_ he thought, clenching his jaw and holding his orphaned nephew all the closer. _I wasn’t supposed to be the last of us alive._

As that line of thought began to spiral, Jon gave a small gasp and jerked to his feet. Benjen barely caught him as he tried to leap from the ditch, a feat made all the harder when he felt the shawl-sling slip from his shoulders. He managed it, though, and both baby and child were restrained against him. 

_“Stay. Down,”_ he firmly commanded. Jon just gestured wildly and gaped at him, eyes brimming with tears once again in his urgency. It took a moment for him to realize exactly what the issue was. He squinted in the dark, focusing on the area indicated by the small boy, but noticed nothing but the solemn faces of the weirwoods and the occasional creature skittering by. A tiny movement, so distant that Benjen was surprised the child had noticed anything at all, caught his eye. 

Benjen was wrong about so many things. So, so grievously wrong, especially tonight it seemed. He had thought Robb and Sansa dead, for one. They were nowhere in the castle, and toddlers weren’t the stealthiest of people. However, as he squinted into the darkness, two shapes that he had passed off as small animals appeared to him as his other nephew and niece, the former pulling the latter along to the shelter of a Weirwood. Had they not been so far from him, he would have rejoiced at the sight. 

He had assumed, too, that no Ironborn would bother looking in this sacrament to the Old Gods. If for nothing else, then they would surely pass it up as a slight to the North they so hated. A cold dread replaced any hope he may have felt the moment before as a large, imposing shadow beneath an adjacent tree became an equally large, imposing man. One of the children noticed him, as was obvious from the high shriek that pierced the air. Benjen preemptively clamped a hand over Jon's mouth. As much as he wanted to draw the attention away from the vulnerable children across the way, there were still two more under his protection; better the baby and the bastard escape unscathed than end the Stark line by redirecting enemy attention.

It was all Benjen could do to watch as the man ripped Sansa from her brother’s grasp, seemingly without any effort on his front. Sansa began to scream hysterically, reaching back for Robb as he yanked on her little foot with all of his childly might and kicked at the man's shins. Looking more annoyed than anything, he turned away and whipped a knife on the boy, who fell to the forest floor clutching his face and howling in pain. Jon screamed into Benjen’s hand, and it was all he could do to bury his nephew's eyes in the thick fur of his cloak. Benjen didn't want to see this, either, would gladly hide his eyes if he could. He didn't want to watch Robb clamber back to his little feet, much too brave to see this was a losing fight. He didn't want to see the blood that ran thick and plenty down his round, freckled cheeks (Gods, but he looked like his mother) as he grabbed once again for his sister.

So, he turned away, his last promise to Ned blaring in his ears.  _ Keep them safe, Ben. Get them away.  _ They weren't safe, none of them were safe. They would never be safe again if Sansa's receding cries were any indication. Robb was as good as dead, too, and Benjen was helpless to turn back and save him when he wailed again, led this time by an awful crunch. Jon tensed against him and the baby squirmed. 

He looked down at her again. The bloody shawl had fallen to his lap, and now this fragile infant was supported by nothing more than Benjen’s own hands. That scared the ranger for some reason, who now felt the burden of responsibility for her for the first time. No one else was there to take her away. Ned wouldn’t come up and grab her when he grew tired of it. Catelyn wasn’t there to hover around him, making sure he supported her head correctly or adjusting his hold. There was no one left for her but Benjen, who looked at her tiny face and saw nothing but imminent hardship and struggle.

_There’s no way she will make it to the Wall,_ he thought, but it was quickly replaced with _‘ Get them away.'_ He knew he had to try. Had to bring these two to the only other place he could. If not for their own good, then to uphold what he could of that feeble promise.

Benjen took one more stuttered breath before peeling Jon from himself. 

“We have to leave,” he restated. Jon nodded, all of the fight gone from his resolve. He rubbed his eyes dry and sniffled.

“Where?”

“North,” he replied with one last look towards the Godswood. “Far north.”

The shawl was once again situated, the baby was firmly secured against him, and he had his nephew’s hand in his own. He gave it a small squeeze, and they set off once again. Winterfell fell out of view but the smoke that rose from it stayed with them for miles more. Benjen Stark knew it would never truly leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This chapter alone was very different than anything I have written before (tone-wise, at least). Not nearly as stupid or goofy as my other WIPs by a long shot.  
> The next chapter will be a look into each of the Stark siblings' lives directly following the fall of Winterfell. Basically more world-building stuff to establish the situations in later chapters. After that, the chapters will all be set ten years after the prologue and will rotate in perspectives by the chapter (so, basically the structure of the ASoIaF books), cycling through Robb, Arya, Sansa, and Jon.  
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Tell me what I can improve on :)


End file.
